PSALMS FOR MOTHER EMANUEL e l e g y f r o m p i t t s b u r g h t o c h a r l e s t o n

the pittsburgh foundation | 2016 FOREWORD

All things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose. — romans 8:28 It requires a lot of faith to practice Romans 8:28. On June 17, 2015, a gunman walked into Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal (A.M.E.) Church and opened fire on women, men and children concluding a Bible Study while their eyes were closed, “watching God.” The nine people killed were armed with Bibles and the Holy Spirit. My childhood friend and ministerial colleague, Rev. Clementa Pinckney, was killed. Our text message stream is still in my cellphone; I will not erase it. Waltrinia Middleton, a college friend, and her aunt, Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor, were killed. These personal relationships made the tragedy sink in even more.

On July 10, 2015, the Confederate flag was removed from the South Carolina State House. Many in my state and across the nation began having more serious conversations about race. I tremble thinking what it cost us to get there.

Emanuel A.M.E. Church is one of the most historic African- American churches in the nation. And Charleston is dubbed the “Holy City” for the plethora of churches that make up its landscape. Every corner of Charleston reminds us of past prejudices, recent hates and an optimistic future. There is a beauty in the city that is majestic. The nation saw it in the outpouring of love after June 17.

The Book of Psalms was the hymnbook of ancient Israel. The Book of Psalms in the Hebrew Bible was written by several authors; the most noteworthy were David and Solomon. David wrote mostly when in danger, on the run, after he sinned and when his heart was shattered. David wrote when he was worshipping and praising G-d or when he was seeking comfort from YHWH.

The Emanuel Massacre broke my heart and the hearts of many people. The Pittsburgh community felt the depth of this tragedy and offered these psalms, laments, poems for us. In times like these we need various forms of comfort that will spark introspection and help us come together as a human family to be better than we were yesterday.

rev. carey a. grady | Reid Chapel AME Church, Columbia, S.C. INTRODUCTION

The Pittsburgh Foundation commissioned Psalms for Mother Emanuel: Elegy from Pittsburgh to Charleston to help spur our collective reflection on the meaning of the nine lives lost in the Charleston Massacre and the persistence of racial animus in our national life.

The 10 commissioned artists share works that evoke community, the significance and burden of place, and the injustice that institutional racism has scripted for African American lives. But these artists also summon hope in the face of trial and suffering, the blue sky above the blues in our throats. Collectively they provide a clarion call for the region and the nation to grapple with the requirements of a future truly free of racism.

We hope they provide a spark for continued reflection, dialogue and action.

Sincerely,

tameka cage conley | contributing co-editor

yona c. harvey | contributing co-editor

germaine williams | senior program officer for arts and culture vanessa german UNTITLED (CHARLESTON CHURCH KILLINGS SERIES)

7 liberty ferda AND WHAT DID WATCHING BIRDS SING WHEN YOU GATHERED

Ghosts of ancestors line Charleston’s shore And what did watching birds sing when you gathered hair coiling to dredlocked fists again, gathered strong as steel they’d break hands outside the church their backs to make up north one day backs to black and yellow caution or sweetgrass weaved so tight tape cautioning too late? no water could escape Surely this: Beware prayers of earth’s meek heirs

Behind them seagulls soar and dip black banded in the cross beaks as if to warn of coming loss hairs of cowards’ aim they rise mothers, uncles, strong and sonorous as ancient conch pastors, cousins, sisters. calling forbears on shore bound

for suffering, so much What, then, of your bell tower birds suffering at the moment of massacre beneath them— survival bequeathed by blood did they rush the steeple, dark and the scandal of forgiving vast feather teardrops down white as ocean white-tipped stucco, or abide in dwelling and free. witness to sunrise years of laughing lace, pearls and spit-shined shoes gleaming foreheads wet with glory boys bound for Sunday

School, bowties starched and blue outspread arms tilt this way and that ready for ascent?

In the day of trouble He will keep me safe in His dwelling

8 9 tameka cage conley joy kmt THE DOORS OF MOTHER EMANUEL ARE OPEN LUKE 19:40 to Felicia Sanders

When the preacher says, the doors of the church are open, he does not mean to tell you what you already know: you can walk into any open door love is insane. you please. grief — a wild thing the polite don’t No. know. the rocks testify — He telling you about your soul. And eternal. Life. relentlessly in their place. You can’t make it without God. the basement unravels — the bedrooms are empty Your body took place. In. Your body heavy with what it knew. Your body the people still smile and new in this holy place. Your body and your piece. Your body and its heat. the days still Your body hears open songs of worship, high as doves, and the beating turn. of your heart. Your body is. A broken song, singing. Your body is not. Hallelujah. Not sacrifice. Your body scrape. Your body hollow. Your body mother of bone and memory, ground. Unholy. Your body ain’t nothing new. Your body hooded. And holed. Your body foreign. And white. we are what god makes us And welcome. and we are — unmade Christ whooped the merchants from the temple. His body ran with sweat grief like it would soon run with blood. Can you beat it? The sinners’ skins set broken moonlight ablaze by God? But when the devil in the sanctuary, and you do not know, slice an empty bedroom how do you defend yourself? winding like the wind in a graveyard — waking the dead But somebody felt it. In the bone. Something bout that boy didn’t. Look right. Didn’t. Feel right. Didn’t go inside, though the doors opened. And mama, i don’t know stayed open. Somebody shook their head. Closed their mouth. Shook why the sun shines their head. Lifted their hands. Shook their head and lowered. Their head. like nothing ain’t Sucked their teeth. Felt spit. Felt water around the heart. Heavy, heavy, ever happen heavy as blood. Lifted their soul. Saw light. Said, Behold, Lord, thy servant. before They feared the Lord, a flaming, holy fear. And treated that boy with love. love — is insane When the door opened, the bodies laid down/The bodies were laid down/ a rolling rock When the door opened/The door opened as doors are made/To open/And an open mouth with a name all the bodies laid down concealed — copper under the bitten Jesus said, No one can take my life from me. Power. I have the authority to tongue lay it down, to take it up again. Power. waiting to wail — at dusk’s end. All nine. Jesus. Sang. Jesus. When called. Jesus. They came. Jesus. Said a wild thing– yes. Jesus. And yes. Jesus. When he came. Jesus. And took. Jesus. Wasn’t what god makes us– nothing. Jesus. To take. Jesus. They was already. Jesus. Laid down. Jesus. Already. Jesus. Surrendered. Jesus. Already. Jesus. Yours. Jesus. Already. Jesus. With you. — Selah.

10 11 terrance hayes THREE SORROWS

I. To murder. I am lonely enough to hate After the deaths of the black men, women, and children, Everything in my face. After I wanted to sing the song I’d heard once about a man killing A black bird is stoned in a field,

A poor old horse in a tanners yard except I wanted to make The black bird lies next to the stone The horse a small black bird and the man a white child, Like a lover with her arms thrown open, With her small mouth opened, And I wanted to sing it to you. After I tried to imagine myself, Like you, Jesus, dead for a little while and singing to the stone And out of which springs a song A boy cannot decipher. Of forgiveness, after I sang with fear or some adjacent feeling Inside the Mother Emanuel African Of the small black bird beneath the stone the small white boy Methodist Episcopal Church Slammed down in the field beyond his house, my voice cracked. Nine beautiful niggers pray in the pews I hummed black lives matter because I was afraid to sing it Like birds. And I say, Jesus Fucking Christ Out loud. Does it matter whether it is a poor old horse To myself and my gun is heavier Or a blackbird? Inside each man is a boy whose father was too kind Than the weight of a life. Or cruel or absent; inside each boy is a mother with a song When I was young I found a black She did not sing often enough to him. I remember singing Who cares Bird with a broken wing in a field. What was inside him after a white boy in the north turned his gun And as I stoned the bird I imagined On a roomful of children and then upon himself. Who cares I was stoning a face until I was splattered

Whether madness, grief, stupidity, fear, or some adjacent feeling With awe. And when I got home Comes before violence. I wanted to know what you think matters, From the field and went to my room, I sang out a song of inevitable sorrow. Lord. After trying to talk about it, I want to sing as you used to sing For a little while: My mother’s lonely. My father is a quiet man. When I looked in the mirror I saw the eyes in a black woman’s face, II. Her skin aglow in the distance. In the hall of my grandmother’s house Stood an old upright piano. Murder is filled with sorrow. I don’t know Wherever I touched the keys sound Who cares. I don’t care who knows I am lonely. I am lonely. I am lonely. Sang and sprang out. I never called anyone nigger, I never stood at the edge

Of a choir afraid to sing out. Behind my white face I wear the mask Of a black woman’s face. I am lonely enough

12 13 sheila carter-jones GUIDED BY STARDUST. AGAIN.

III. We all have the same name. Say hello to the little boy There’s nowhere else to go. Whose poor head is filled with noise For I’m the bird he’s fixed to kill Some of us will still have to die here. For singing this song in the field My old man Uncle Charlie Boy said that. Blue blackbirds, Blue blackbirds But I didn’t want to believe that. Hear what is done to the singing birds Until all nine did. Die. Again.

His hands around my wondrous wings Made me a believer. Again. Plucked feathers my mother once stroked They went marching. Waving the good I held the song within my throat book of justice. Changing me to light. I sang after my body broke Anyone to light willing to pray. Black bluebird, Black bluebird God willing. Hear what is done to a singing bird Some call them a group of six and three. And now to make my music still I call each ordinary name in a litany of sound He took a stone up from the field rolling off my grieving tongue. I sang to the stone like a lover though For none could crush my trembling throat Gentle soldiers.

Poor small boy, poor small boy Hear my cry out for the life of Miss Susie. Hear what you did to a singing bird Memory of sweet collard greens locked in my history of mothers and taste buds. His blows beat down upon my song But the song remained when I was gone Say, hear me give breath to Reverend Daniel. When the boy walked home Pure Purple Heart courage. Fought evil To a lonely room I heard the tune he hummed with love and won a victory for all of us.

Listen to me sing praises to Miss Ethel Lee. Loved love. Loved blood-rhythms pushing us a step closer. Closer to glory.

How sweet the sound.

Keep an ear on how Miss Myra never stopped holding stars in her eyes. Reached and grabbed one right from the sky the day she walked away. Ordained.

14 15 a.k. payne kelli stevens kane MIDNIGHT, HEALING DONATIONS for Polly Sheppard, Felicia Sanders, and her granddaughter in the holy city, man who will not be named kills nine with a pistol in a black church. in the basement of Mother Emanuel, next to those boxes they do not tell you that one bullet pierced jesus. for Emanuel Nine hole where his eye once was, red paint like blood on cheeks jesus, shattered skull like fifty years ago in Birmingham. for you, the three survivors are packages from Pittsburgh you find this yourself. filled with in the holy city, the confederate flag is stuffed words you want to hear into the back of your throat. you stand, from friends who don’t nakedconfusedgagging, know what to say in the church with your hands raised to this jesus. white and bloody and blind, jesus around the clock relief from you discover communion, made hard to swallow for all the cotton. nightmares in the holy city, they tell you the confederate flag sanity sings a song for the soil, safety but really it sings a song for your death, strength impetus for tortured dance on carolina dirt, forced grin extending to cheeks. and front row seats in our memories, our this dance escapes you. and here you are all convulsion. history, our hearts in the dark, in the church, in the holy city, forevermore you still struggle to breathe, spitting up the confederacy before this blind jesus who scratches deep of twelve into the insides of your palms with suthernpride. let the world speak not nine in the holy city, at dawn, thousands of steeples on the horizon. your body curved like a sickle, knees pressed into the carpet of this church. the sun smears herself onto the eyes of jesus, her own mud and saliva. your embattled palms become morning offerings, like your own communion, prayer for survival. the flag still hangs from your throat, limp and weakened, drowned out with fresh crimson blood and broken bread.

16 17 yona harvey HUSH HARBOR

1. 4. “What does it mean to see a black church burn?” And, furthermore, I buried my grandson Bear’s Breech, Blue Star Bearded Iris and, furthermore, I buried my sister What does it mean when our black blood turns? Lamb’s hushed, white Roses Ear, Texas Sage and, furthermore, I buried my lover False Red Yucca, swat moths away, sinners and, anyway, he never said, “forgive” and sin. Must we always invite them in? June-yanked Yarrow False Indigo Barrenwort creeps Gayfeather, Thrift Mary, don’t you weep, oh, Mary Must we always invite them in?

2. 5. and, furthermore, we buried our mother And, furthermore, I buried my anguish Bugbane, Bee Balm Coronation “What does it mean to see a black church burn?” Gold in my palms after rain, and further- up Calhoun Street, more, Violet up Ravenel Bridge What does it mean when we memorize Psalms And who among us speaks for us all, not Or “stand in the way that sinners take,” or me, too simple, Umbrella Sedge too, soon to say Joe-Pye Weed just what I feel when black churches Or, sparrow over sycamore

3. 6. burn, the door closing, burn, and furthermore, Forget-me-not, Father, Forget-me-not Black-eyed Susan Mother, Forget And, furthermore, we buried our father me not, Saints. For You created my in- June-snatched Yarrow most being, You Hens & Chickens, Rosettes between rock knit me together in my mother’s womb the hell that crept through our door of ages And, furthermore, I buried my husband Jerusalem Bamboo, Goutweed Sage, Lavender Evening Primrose Cotton, Coreopsis corners Mother don’t you weep, Mother, don’t

18 19 cameron barnett IF A BAG OF SILVER COINS AND A BAG OF BULLETS SOUND THE SAME

7. then take my ears, I do not need them Moan and Plantain Lily, widen your shawl America can look Solomon’s Seal a muzzle in the face and not see before you tighten it, Come by here, Lord its own hand behind the barrel Come by here, Lord then take my eyes I do not want them What does it mean when our suffering returns? and if prayers no longer suffice then take twofold, threefold, fourfold, ten—and if they my lips and undo my tongue from its moorings. turn, let us shout Lord, take each part of me back let us shout, Saints until You don’t recognize my image What shall we shout when our suffering What is the opposite of a kiss 8. anyway? There will be no lice or locusts returns? If they can burn a cross, they can— no boils or bloodied rivers to tread Lady’s Mantle no frogs or fire or firstborns doomed Leave me burn a church. If they can burn a church, they my palms and know if I put them up to the sky can burn Coral I am asking to be filled Bells. If they can burn Coral Bells, they can— not with lead but with Your love one bullet, two bullet, ten bullet, more A bible group hummed some holy hymnal hushed white roses before the evening ran red A gun hummed Baby’s Breath, Prick- nine death notes and I watched You catch ly Pear. I lack nothing. each one. What is the opposite of mercy? 9. Delusions of white power higher than Sinai Blood on a church pew like Snow in Summer Lord, leave me something to ache Dutch Iris, Dead for those souls delivered Nettle, Baby’s Breath too soon What is there to do but cover Delphinium your neighbor as you would have them Queen. I lack nothing. I shall not want. I cover you? What more will You take shall not want. I shall not want. I shall not— of me? I am sick up to my neck shovel winter Snow. No blood on pews, but if You leave my arms nor floors, nor stairs at summer’s door. I will climb flagpoles while the people say goodbye Rhodesia goodbye Klan goodbye red mantle and star-shackled blue bars If America is some promised land let me be the ocean’s highest tide Mother

will not drown The people cry Emanuel! so You must be here They are not afraid to be Your lighthouse of hope In the name of Thy Son let me fill the church to the steeple and I will wash sin and spilled blood alike And if water is rebirth Lord make my flood holy

20 21 COMMISSIONED ARTISTS

tameka cage conley | co-contributing editor terrance hayes A native of Louisiana, she received her bachelor’s in English at Terrance Hayes is the author of How to Be Drawn (Penguin 2015) Dillard University in New Orleans and her doctoral degree in and Lighthead (Penguin 2010), winner of the 2010 National Book English at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. A 2012 Award and finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. nominee for the Pushcart Prize for Poetry, has been published His other books are Wind In a Box (Penguin 2006), Hip Logic in Huizache: The Magazine of Latino Literature, Fledgling Rag, (Penguin 2002) and Muscular Music (Tia Chucha Press, 1999). Chapter & Verse and Callaloo. sheila carter jones yona harvey | co-contributing editor Sheila Carter-Jones charts in images and music the lived Yona Harvey is the author of the poetry collection, Hemming exper­iences of a small-town girl brought up in a house across the Water, winner of the Kate Tufts Discovery Award from from the boney dump of Republic Steel Coal Mines outside of Claremont Graduate University. Her work has been anthologized Pittsburgh. She has been published in Pennsylvania Review and in many publications including A Poet’s Craft: A Comprehensive Pittsburgh Quarterly. Guide to Making and Sharing Your Poetry and The Force of What’s Possible: Accessibility and the Avant-Garde. kelli stevens kane Kelli Stevens Kane is a poet, playwright, oral historian and cameron barnett performer. She performs nationally, including appearances at Cameron Barnett is a poet from the Squirrel Hill neighborhood of the Cornelia Street Cafe and Bowery Poetry Club in New York Pittsburgh. He earned bachelor’s degrees in English writing City, and The New Hazlett Theater and Carnegie Museum of and Spanish from Duquesne University. In 2014 he took first Art in Pittsburgh. place in The University of Pittsburgh’s Academy of American Poets Graduate Poetry Award contest. joy kmt Joy KMT is self-taught&queer&black&femme&hood&poet& liberty ferda mother&lover&. She works from the possibility of the personal Liberty Ferda writes on race and adoption for The Lost Daughters to be collectively transformational. Her poetry has appeared in website and has work featured in various regional publications, Check The Rhyme: An Anthology of Female Emcees and Poets and including Carnegie Mellon Today Magazine, Pitt Magazine and Amistad: Howard’s Literary Journal. RemakeLearning.com. alexis payne vanessa german The national nonprofit Alliance for Young Artists and Writers Vanessa German is an award-winning multidisciplinary artist picked Alexis Payne as one of its 16 Portfolio Gold Medal based in the Homewood community of Pittsburgh. The third Award winners in its annual contest. She currently attends of five children, Vanessa was born in Wisconsin and raised Yale University. in Los Angeles.

22 23 The Pittsburgh Foundation commissioned Psalms for Mother Emanuel to commemorate the first anniversary of the June 17, 2015 shooting at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. Ten artists created works in response to the massacre. The limited edition of 1,000 includes 100 handmade chapbooks by Pittsburgh artists. Special thanks to Bob Beckman of Artist Image Resource, who advised the project and offered space for bookmaking; Jasdeep Khaira of Encyclopedia Destructica, who oversaw the artist bookmaking process and production; and Rick Landesberg, Amanda Holl, and the team at Landesberg Design, which provided inspiration and design expertise in creating the chapbook.

Established in 1945, The Pittsburgh Foundation is one of the nation’s oldest community foundations and is the 13th largest of more than 750 community foundations across the United States.

As a community foundation, our resources comprise endowment funds established by individuals, businesses and organizations with a passion for charitable giving and a deep commitment to the Pittsburgh community. The Foundation currently has more than 2,000 individual donor funds and, together with its supporting organizations, assets of more than $1.14 billion. Grantmaking benefits a broad spectrum of community life within Pittsburgh and beyond.

The Foundation has strengthened its focus on community and the positive impact it strives to achieve through its grantmaking, the engagement of its donors in critical regional issues and its activities around convening and leadership in collaboration with funding and civic partners. maxwell king | president and CEO

www.pittsburgh foundation.org